BEARDING A GRIZZLY IN HIS DEN. 



A. L. DUHIG. 



Finding we could absent ourselves a few 

 days from our posts at Thermopolis, Wy- 

 oming, without deadlocking the industries 

 of that burg, my chum and I determined 

 to take advantage of the discovery. We 

 would ride forth, view the scenery and 

 expose a few plates on such bits of it as 

 evidenced good workmanship. In the can 

 yon of the big Horn river, 10 miles North 

 of Thermopolis, there is a plethora of 

 scenery, a little chaotic, to be sure, but 

 first rate of its kind. 



Thither we rode one bright morning, 

 equipped with a camera, blankets and pro- 

 visions for several days. In addition, my 

 companion, who, because of a genial 

 Western custom and a light-colored poll, 

 is known as Cotton Top, carried an old 

 44-caliber rifle. Though it contained a 

 few cartridges, it was taken chiefly to 

 enable Cotton to pose in the foreground 

 of my prospective pictures. 



The canyon is exceedingly rough. 

 Therefore we left our horses at its mouth, 

 and went in afoot. There are a number 

 of rapids and falls about 5 miles up the 

 gorge, and we intended to visit them.. We 

 went 3 miles or more, clambering over the 

 rocky bed of the canyon. Coming to a 

 narrower place we found it necessary to 

 mount the side of the gorge a little way 

 to avoid the clutter of boulders and loose 

 rock. The slope was not great and I was 

 pushing rapidly ahead when stopped by an 

 exclamation from my friend. He was 

 some distance in the rear and was pointing 

 at something higher up. Not until I had 

 retraced my steps to his side could I see 

 what had attracted his attention. Under 

 an overhanging ledge and hidden from 

 most points of view by projecting rocks, 

 was a hole about 2> l A feet in diameter. 



"I say," cried Cotton, "s'pose it's Dolan's 

 mine !" 



Now among the stories told to children 

 and other receptive persons in our part 

 of the world is one which recites the ad- 

 ventures of a certain Dolan. 



He was an oldtime prospector and for 

 years went to and fro. His sole possessions 

 were a pick, a disreputable Mexican dog 

 and a thirst that would have cut him down 

 ere his prime, had not misfortune and a 

 total lack of credit preserved him to adorn 

 a tale. Once he appeared suddenly at a 

 mining camp with an air of mystery, a 

 handful of nuggets and a shriveling drouth. 

 Those good things he exploited at the 

 nearest bar. Before becoming speechless 

 he confided to the crowd, in strictest con- 



fidence, that he had found an old Spanish 

 or Indian mine. Its extraordinary rich- 

 ness, he added, could be judged from the 

 fact that when he chanced to sneeze in the 

 shaft, the echo loosened a half peck of nug- 

 gets from the roof and sides. As gentle 

 hands laid Dolan in a bunk to get over it, 

 he is said to have murmured that it was 

 his firm intention, after his next visit to 

 the mine, to buy the greater part of 

 Wyoming as a playground for his dog. 

 Alas ! his modest ambition was never 

 realized. A long enforced course of alkali 

 water had so corroded his tank lining that 

 that bright dream was his last. 



Despite its gauzy probability the yarn 

 had always appealed to my fancy. I was, 

 therefore, very willing to follow Cotton 

 into the hole, perchance to find ourselves 

 joint heirs of the late Dolan. 



We had 2 candles among our supplies. 

 Lighting those and leaving our packs out- 

 side, we entered the hole. That the rifle 

 remained hanging by its sling to Cotton's 

 shoulder, was, I am sure, due only to his 

 having forgotten it. The hole enlarged 

 so rapidly that at 15 feet from the en- 

 trance it was perhaps 10 feet wide and 

 so high we could stand almost erect. The 

 walls were black and lusterless, with not 

 one gleaming point that even a tenderfoot 

 could fancy golden. I was about to voice 

 my disappointment when we heard a 

 clatter as of moving pebbles. 



"What's that?" I cried. 



"I don' know," said Cotton ; "a wolf, per- 

 haps." 



That reminded him of the gun, and he 

 was slipping it from his shoulder when, 

 with a loud growl, a great beast charged 

 out of the darkness. We both yelled, 

 dropped the candles, and sprang aside. I 

 was an instant too late. The brute's 

 shoulder struck my hip and threw me 

 against the wall with such force that I 

 rebounded and fell, just clearing his hind 

 feet as he passed. Why he did not attack 

 us I can not imagine, unless it was be- 

 cause he was as frightened as we. 



We lost no time in getting out of the 

 cave. Its late occupant, a large grizzly 

 bear, was slowly climbing the side of the 

 canyon, about 150 yards away. Cotton 

 threw the old gun to his shoulder and 

 fired. Some benign chance steered the bul- 

 let and it broke the bear's spine,. The big 

 beast rolled down the slope, snarling and 

 catching at rocks and shrubs with his fore- 

 feet. He landed at the bottom within easy 

 range, and a head shot ended his troubles. 



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